


Oubliette.

by BarPurple



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Mentions of Blood, PTSD Sherlock, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 02:43:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6886081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was 'dead' for two years, but the memories of that time are very much alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oubliette.

The smell of blood turned his stomach. Blood didn’t normally affect him, other peoples at least he had no problem with, was this his blood he could smell? He wasn’t sure, no, this was a crime scene, not his blood then, but combined with the rotten oily seaweed stench of the docks the trap doors of the oubliettes in his mind opened, letting their buried contents spew forth to overwhelm him. His mind filled with the pain and fear that had consumed him all those months ago.

“Sherlock.”

The shipping container that was today’s crime scene flickered before his eyes. The babbled voices of the docks shifted from Cockney to Turkish and back again. The weight of chains he’d not felt in sixteen months dragged his hands to his sides, but vanished under the reality of his situation. His breathing came in rapid pants; his heart beat pounding against his ribs.

“Sherlock.”

Molly.

Doctor Molly Hooper, a genius of the dead, but only the quiet, still and clean aftermath of death. Not for her the bloody painful mess that caused the problems she solved with such dedication.

“Sherlock. Look at me.”

Molly and her soft kind eyes that saw everything he hid so easily from other people. Her kind eyes that had never been part of the nightmares his mind was reliving. With her eyes in his sight the images of the past began to fade.

“Sherlock. Listen to me.”

Molly’s voice that comforted him the midst of his pain and torture, no matter that she was a million miles away at the time. Molly’s voice reached him then as it reached him now and anchored him into the moment; this moment in London, this moment in the present, not the past. His rapidly beating heart slowed under her gentle touch and his eyes focused on her, as her little fingers spread their warmth across his chest.

He couldn’t speak, but he managed to nod at her. Sluggishly his hand rose from his side, no chains there not today, and covered hers where it lay on his chest, against his heart safe under the armour of his shirt and suit, safer still for her hand protecting it. Still he couldn’t find his voice, but Molly; his wonderful Molly didn’t need him to speak. 

She knew. She understood. She was amazing.

“You don’t need to go in there. I’ll go in and tell you everything you need.”

His arms flew from his sides at that. They wrapped around her and pulled her close. The panic rose in him again as he hugged her tight against him and whispered his deepest fears into her ear.

“No. No. Never you; not in that foul, dark place, Molly. Please.”

She didn’t pull away from him. She wrapped herself tighter against him.

“I’m here Sherlock. I’m safe. I’ve got you, love. You’ve got me, love.”

The scent, the sound, the feel of Molly forced the lid back on to the oubliette and locked his fears away once more.

 

Lestrade had been keeping an eye on his consulting detective from a discreet distance. The second Doctor Hooper had stepped up and grabbed Sherlock’s hand he’d whistled under his breath and reached for his mobile. He was distracted by the text he needed to send when his newest, wet behind the ears, detective sergeant sidled up to him and said;

“Not really the place for that is it, Guv?”

Greg’s eyes followed Matthew’s nodded head to where Sherlock was hugging Molly tight. He cleared his throat carefully; cuddling at crime scenes wasn’t the norm unless you understood why that desperate embrace was needed. The ugly sneer on Matthew’s face told Greg that he was one of those idiots who believed Sherlock to be a freak.  
Well. Time to pull rank then wasn’t it? Greg tried to keep the harsh glee from his voice, but he was certain it showed a little. Fuck it, he wasn’t going to stand by and have his friends treated like this.

“DS Matthews. Suit up and get a camera. You need a lesson in observation.”

The new DS stammered and huffed, but the frown on Greg’s face was stern enough to keep him from actual words. Stomping with more force than needed Greg made his way over to Sherlock and Molly. His heavy foot falls worked; by the time he reached them they had separated to a respectable distance.

“Sherlock. My new DS needs some training, mind if I send him in with a camera, while you yell at him from the van?”

It would take an expert in Sherlock to spot the slight shift in his shoulders that signalled thanks. Greg just caught it, but gave no sign of it as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Fine. I suppose I can’t do all the work for you lot.”

The huff Greg gave him as he bounced off to the SOC van was mild, but it covered the slight nod of inquiry Greg directed at Molly. The pathologist looked to the world as if she had ignored him, but Greg caught her slight whisper as she passed he to follow Sherlock.

“Danger night.”

Greg gave her arm a fleeting touch and nodded.

“Sent.”

It was the briefest of exchanges, one that Greg was sure the newest members of his team wouldn’t notice, and for all that made him despair at the quality of the detectives under his command he was grateful. Sherlock Holmes was a necessary thorn in the side of NSY; how to manage Sherlock was a burden that a select few carried, and that was the way it would stay.

There were some things that only friends would ever understand.

_Greg Lestrade to British Gov; John Watson; Mary Watson; Bill_

_Battle Stations._

_Understood – MH_

_Mrs H babysitting at ours – MW_

_Kit packed and ready – JW_

_Eyes in place – Bill_

 

Forty hours later a bone tired Greg Lestrade stared at the thick bottomed crystal glass in his hand. There had been scotch, a very good scotch, in it not that long ago.

“He didn’t make a sound when that bastard jumped me. Just grabbed him and threw him across the room like a rag doll.”

Greg frowned at the words. No one knew what had happened at the crime scene. Oh, he did, it was his voice, and he’d just told that part of the story. Greg blinked and raised his head. In the seat opposite him the British Government nodded slowly.

“We both know that my brother is fiercely protective of those he cares for. Does that scare you Lestrade?”

The puzzled look on Greg’s face was clear enough in the dim light that Mycroft clarified his question with; “Knowing that you are on the small list of people that my brother would tear the world apart to protect.”

Greg inhaled slowly through his nose and huffed out the breath.

“Fucking terrifies me. Love like that is a lot to live up too.”

Mycroft’s lips thinned at the use of the word ‘love’, but he nodded.

“And now the villain is dealt with how will you shoulder the burden of my brother’s love?”

A dry chuckle was Greg’s first response. He carefully placed his empty glass on the table and rose slowly to his uncertain feet. Mycroft was watching him, those eyes of his sharp for all their apparent languid indifference. He’d never understand the brothers Holmes, wasn't sure that he ever wanted too. He was at the door before he answered Mycroft’s question.

“Same way I always do. I’ll nag him about the paperwork and tell him not to be a twat to the press or on the witness stand.”

As he walked through the door Lestrade was sure he heard Mycroft say; “Thank you Greg.”


End file.
